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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27446923">you live in the sand in the bottom of the hourglass</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/smolstiel/pseuds/smolstiel'>smolstiel</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Welcome to Night Vale</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Big Rico's Pizza (Welcome to Night Vale), Gen, POV Carlos (Welcome to Night Vale), creepy taxonomy, misophonists beware, the first episode except carlos is telling it, this really needs a part two but we’ll see if i get there</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 02:55:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,935</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27446923</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/smolstiel/pseuds/smolstiel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos arrives in Night Vale.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>you live in the sand in the bottom of the hourglass</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>instead of posting supernatural fanfic into today’s climate i give you, once again, night vale. life’s too surreal to write anything else.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Carlos watched the sand kick up behind the old rickety bus. There must not be a single gust of wind, based on the way it floated straight up into the air and settled back down again almost exactly where it was before, minus inertia. The sky was an endless, eerie blue, not a single cloud. The horizon itself was unbroken except for the occasional scrubby cactus. They looked like toys from this distance, and Carlos figured they must be at least a mile out from the closest one. He turned back to front. There was a divot beyond the windshield, the smallest little wrinkle in the land. There, just beyond the canyon, was Night Vale. </p><p>He was the only one on the bus, aside from the driver. This didn’t bother him until the driver stopped in the middle of the dusty road and bellowed, “Last stop!” </p><p>Carlos half-rose uncertainly, clutching Suitcase 2 of 4 to his chest. Then he sat back down again. “I’m going to Night Vale,” he called forward. </p><p>The bus driver turned around, brows lowered, shaking his head. As he did, his jowls swung like a bulldog’s. “Bud, no one goes to Night Vale.” </p><p>“I’m going to Night Vale,” Carlos maintained. He dug in his pocket, and held his ticket up. The driver, despite being eight seats ahead of him, produced reading glasses and squinted at the slip of cardstock thoughtfully. </p><p>“Night Vale. Arrives 4:35pm,” he read aloud. He nodded, and his face jiggled as if in agreement. “Yup. That sure does say Night Vale.” </p><p>“So you’ll take me the rest of the way?” </p><p>The bus driver frowned, picking listlessly at the loose vinyl on the steering wheel. “You’re not hearing me, bud. Maybe I should say it this way. No one goes to Night Vale because no one comes back <i>out</i> of Night Vale.” </p><p>“I understand the risks,” Carlos said staunchly. “I ascertained some of the death certificates myself. That’s actually why I’ve come. I’m a scientist.” </p><p>“Huh.” The driver sounded impressed. “I took you for one of them tourist types. Radon Canyon sure does draw in the flies, you know.” </p><p>Carlos glanced down at his casual weekend lab coat, a little sweaty but otherwise, he’d thought, more or less scientific. Maybe he should have worn his professional weekday lab coat. “I’m supposed to be in Night Vale by 4:35.” </p><p>The driver sucked on his teeth. “Yeah, it’s a ways on, ain’t it, bud? You better start now.” </p><p>And that’s how Carlos ended up trudging through a radioactive wasteland with Suitcases 2 of 4 and 4 of 4 under each arm, 1 of 4 in his left hand, and 3 of 4 strapped to his back. His right hand held his handheld Geiger counter, providing a background of beeping so constant it almost faded into a smooth, unbroken background of noise, assuring him that he was most definitely at risk of spontaneously growing another limb at any time. </p><p>The few scrubby plants out here were twisted and misshapen, and glowing a bright green. In fact, the whole landscape was dotted with green — pebbles and stones, junky old refrigerators, and, once, an old wooden crate that hummed almost melodically. Carlos tried to hurry. </p><p>Still, the blue of the sky faded to a violent red sunset before Carlos stumbled into town. The first and only building he saw was a rundown-looking brick building, nearly monolithic in size. Big Rico’s Pizza. He blinked dazedly a few times to make sure it wasn’t a mirage, because there were doors all the way up. He counted five stories, and wished his voice recorder wasn’t in Suitcase 3 of 4. He finally pushed open the squeaky brown door and entered. </p><p>Maybe it was a mirage after all. As he stepped into the dining room, chatter died away. The clinks of forks against plates and loud, wet chewing did not. There were at least twenty gazes fixed on him, narrowed, forty suspicious eyes in various colors and hues, and twenty mouths working double time to force pizza into their gullets as quickly as possible. </p><p>He picked the booth closest to the door, red and peeling, and set down Suitcase 1 of 4, 2 of 4, and 4 of 4, packing the Geiger counter back into 2 of 4. The wallpaper was peeling similarly, yellow with grease stains in long drips along the wall. Carlos assumed they were grease stains. Above their heads were more heads. Mounted heads, that was, three-eyed deer, green and glowing jackrabbits, a velociraptor, and some things that were simply past identification, toothy and misshapen. There was also a zebra’s ass, mounted almost exactly opposite Carlos’ chosen booth. </p><p>He gave the room a small wave, and clutched the straps of Suitcase 3 of 4 a little closer to his shoulders. He wasn’t afraid, although he knew he should be. </p><p>An oily waiter was behind him. Carlos jumped. With all the silence, he hadn’t heard him approach. “Hello,” he said pleasantly, and took off Suitcase 3 of 4. When he turned back, there was a sweaty glass of water on the laminate table, and the waiter was gone again. </p><p>He eased himself into the booth. It was a little outdoorsy, a musk in the air. A tiny piece of brown fur shot out of a hole in the plastic. Carlos plucked it up between two fingers, smelled it, and tucked it into a bag labeled for further study. </p><p>No one spoke. He ate three slices of mushroom and jackfruit pizza in the clamor of constant watching and the compulsive stuffing of faces. No one entered the restaurant. No one left. After about fifteen minutes, he put a twenty dollar bill on the table, gathered his suitcases up, and pushed back out the door. </p><p>The lone monolith wasn’t alone anymore. Nor was it a monolith. It looked as though it had sunk deep into the sand, only eight feet of clearance between the ground and the flat roof. The doors stood just the same as they always were, except only one was visible now. </p><p>“Huh,” Carlos said. There were other installments all around him now — a sports shop across the street, a convenience store and gas station, a few residences, an Arby’s. Buildings stretched in one long line on both sides of the road, broken only for the occasional empty lot, pile of rubble, or, in one case, a imposingly tall, black wall with a sign on it. That was as far as Carlos could see. There were no other roads, he didn’t think, not going crossways anyway. </p><p>The people had all stopped. The bustle of traffic paused, heads craning out of rolled-down windows to look at him. Carlos felt sweat roll down his back, even as the last rays of sun died out and plunged the town into darkness. Or, near darkness. Carlos looked up. A small array of lights passed overhead like a slow-moving flock of geese. Beyond them, the moon glared down with unrestrained suspicion. </p><p>He turned back around to face Big Rico’s, and smiled. Just to the left of the sunken monolith was a small shack with a rusted sign. <i>LAB,</i> it said, and nothing more, and Carlos knew it was his. </p><p>There was paperwork half-stuck in the mail slot already. Carlos frowned — he had been anticipating oral agreements, seeing as writing instruments were illegal. The law in question was something he’d had to ferret out between the lines on multiple firsthand accounts, and he hadn’t quite figured out what the substitution was. He stared at the paper for a moment before licking his salty finger and stamping it down on the line for a signature. Immediately the mail slot sucked the paperwork back into its depths. A gulp sounded, and then, the click of a lock. </p><p>Carlos turned the knob. The interior was dark, sandy, and smelled centuries old. The equipment, however, was not centuries old. It was state-of-the-art, it was stainless and clean, and it buzzed with a faint warmth and purpose. It felt like home. </p><p>He unpacked his suitcases with the door open. There weren’t any stars, just the lights passing by intermittently in an endless void, and the moon. Even a hostile moon was a small oasis in an unfamiliar world. He slipped his voice recorder into his pocket, his Geiger counter into his other pocket, and his travel-sized AM/FM radio into his other other pocket. He hesitated then. Tomorrow he had plans, and tonight he hoped to get a better read on the local culture. It wasn’t his focus by any means, but blending in seemed vital. Literally, vital, as in, if he didn’t he might be losing vital organs. </p><p>So he switched on the radio. </p><p>
  <i>”Old Woman Josie, out near the car lot, says the angels revealed themselves to her. Said they were ten feet tall, radiant, and one of them was black.”</i>
</p><p>Carlos was instantly enthralled. The voice — the dulcet, sonorous, perfect voice — it cradled him, soothed him, held him spellbound with its smoothness and vigor. </p><p>
  <i>”Said they helped her with various household chores. One of them changed a light bulb for her — the porch light. She's offering to sell the old light bulb, which has been touched by an angel. It was the black angel, if that sweetens the pot for anyone. If you're interested, contact Old Woman Josie. She's out near the car lot.”</i>
</p><p>Vaguely, Carlos made a note to visit the car lot tomorrow. The voice held a quiet skepticism in its rich, velvety tones, comforting and all-encompassing, and Carlos adored it. </p><p>Then. Oh, <i>then.</i></p><p>
  <i>“A new man came into town today. Who is he? What does he want from us? Why his perfect and beautiful haircut? Why his perfect and beautiful coat?” </i>
</p><p>There was a stinging sensation over his lips, where Carlos had slapped a hand over his mouth to stifle what might have become a scream. He was nearly hyperventilating behind his own suffocating skin. Perhaps it was a scientist’s intuition, perhaps it was the only reasonable explanation. Either way, Carlos knew. He knew. </p><p>
  <i>”He says he is a scientist. Well...we have all been scientists at one point or another in our lives. But why now? Why here? And just what does he plan to do with all those breakers and humming electrical instruments in that lab he's renting — the one next to Big Rico's Pizza?”</i>
</p><p>They all <i>knew</i> — all those eyes and mouths and gaping faces — they knew, and he knew, and they knew that he knew, and it was then that the horror began to creep in on him: the horror of being known. It was then that Carlos understood why no one came to Night Vale. </p><p>It was also then that Carlos knew he could not leave. They knew — they would be waiting for him. It was hard to think past the metallic smell of salt and the taste of the bruise forming against his teeth. He dizzyingly categorized his racing heart and clammy skin as symptoms of his anxiety come to a final head. He had been expecting this. He had not been expecting to be <i>known.</i></p><p>A shudder ran through his chest as he removed his hand from his lips. He <i>had</i> to stay. The horror could not overwhelm him when he had work to do. Important work, scientific work that could change the face of the whole community. </p><p>So he pulled his sample of fur from Big Rico’s, prepared a slide, and listened to the perfect, beautiful, terrifying voice until dawn broke the chokehold of the intermittent lights over the Arby’s.</p>
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